Instant Mom by Nia Vardalos Read Free Book Online Page B

casual and large backyard home barbecue I’m at today. I shouldn’t be here. The fertility drugs make me dizzy and very sensitive.
    I am feeling particularly apprehensive because what happens next happens too often: with Mother’s Day in the air, a mom blithely asks why Ian and I don’t have children. This makes my throat close. Because yep, before I can answer, here it comes—other moms overhear and jump in, exclaiming what a great father my husband would be, so why on earth don’t we have kids? When I give a tight-lipped answer, “We’re trying,” they don’t go mercifully silent. Oh no.
    Their intention is to help—I know they want to and I value their kindness—but I don’t want to get advice in this public setting. I think of the considerate friend who had learned of my situation last week and quietly pressed a prayer card into my hand. That I appreciated. But this open forum is not comfortable.
    I feel my customary and dreaded upper-lip sweat beads from the attention. All I’d wanted was a snack and I’d dared to venture away from Ian to this food area. Now, crudité in hand, I am backed up against the appetizers table by chipper moms hip-bouncing their perfect, pudgy babies. These women are me, they’re most of us. They’re nice women offering information. So, I try to nod politely and accept the benevolence of these fine women’s well-meaning stories of a sister who did egg donation, or a friend who found a baby in a Sears fitting room.
    I hear a strident and shrill: “You should . . .” and my shoulders go up around my ears. I turn to see: sure enough, it’s a beautiful woman who does not know when to stop talking. I love beautiful women and wish I was one. But some beautiful women’s need to be heard overtakes many a social gathering as they fill the air with loud “You should” advice. There are lots of beautiful women who do not act like this. Most don’t. No, only certain beautiful women have this affliction. It’s called Beautiful Woman Syndrome. These BWS women, from the time they were young until recently, were the most beautiful woman in the room, so men listened to them. They somehow confused this result with being interesting. But now their men no longer listen to them. And they’re still talking. At me.
    This woman’s finger-pointing “you should” advice now comes my way. I hate the phrase “you should.” As in “You should have bangs.” Or “You should talk to my sister about her genius doctor in Prague.” Or “You should just adopt from China.”
    I should speak up, but I can’t. I’m not good with confrontation. I get tongue-tied or worry I’ll hurt people’s feelings. I wish I was more mature and could articulate that this is a private matter. But I’m more likely to make a joke than instigate a moment of gravity that might suddenly whirl up into an awkward social tornado. So, I don’t say anything. I just want to throw dip in the air and run.
    Conversely, I don’t blame them—before I was in this situation, I said dumb, dumb things to women about their baby plans. We all have. And I know all these nice women, including the one with BWS, truly want to help. Just as I get away from them, I hear a hissing sound and look up.
    Oh, crap.
    The group of unhappy women is looking at me. You know them. This is a worldwide club of not-nice-women who spew nastiness at other females. Membership requirements are merely a bitterness over the dissatisfaction with one’s own achievements and the ability to curl a lip into an impressive sneer. I try to escape across the lawn but am encircled by . . . The Coven.
    Since the days of my theater school teacher wanting to stab me for being a fat but happy girl, I have accepted there are some fractious people who just wish I’d explode. Plus, the good luck of my first movie has made me an easy target for the disenchanted. Guileless me wants to get out some pom-poms and shout: But don’t you see, when a geek like me finds